My windshield wiper sprayer thingy broke the other day. Mike spent approximately one minute under the hood, and told me the following, which I remember exactly, because I wrote it down:
“The cap on the back side of the windshield wiper nozzle fell off so that it is spraying backward into the engine.”
But at the car dealership, as I always do, I resorted to a kind of baby vernacular, using words that don’t really exist. Here’s what I told the service associate (despite the cheat sheet in my pocket):
“The windshield wiper thingamagig on the driver’s side under the hood is making a big mess when it sprays. The watchamacallit isn’t working right.”
Despite the baby talk, the guy understood me. The fix, he told me, would be about a half hour, and I should have a seat in the waiting area. I was about to get anxious about the time, because a half hour is never just a half hour, and I had things to do.
But then, I remembered….the chair. The awesome massage chair. The ridiculous massage chair! The massage chair that no one is ever in, because it’s in the “Quiet Room,” where there is no TV, and cell phones are verboten.
“I’ll be in the Quiet Room,” I told him. “No rush.”
The Quiet Room was empty as always, and I claimed the chair as my own. I was not getting out. Not even if the place burst out in flames. Not even to pee. Not even if a pregnant lady came in and asked nicely for the chair because her back hurt, and not even if she told me she that she was full of anxiety because she just got back from Brazil and she thinks she might have contracted Zika (lady, you better come up with a better story than that!)
I sank in, fixed the settings, and my massage commenced.
This massage chair (It is a Cyber-Relax, made in Japan) is unlike any massage chair I have ever had the pleasure to sit in (not that I claim to be an expert.) According to the website, it is a “medical” massage chair, designed by a medical doctor in Japan, and claims to (and it really does) provide a deep tissue massage throughout the whole body. It even has prongs that get at your butt. And there is a “Repeat” button.
This chair puts the ones that lure you into a Brookstone’s to shame. It makes the ones in the nail salon look like child’s play. This chair is sooooooo good, they are not even paying me for writing this post!
I literally could spend all day in that chair. And as I settled in at the dealership, my mind started to wander and I got a little sleepy:
I love this chair so much.
I wonder how much it cost? It must be thousands of dollars. (It is.)
I want to marry this chair. I want it to be by my side forever.
I want to take this chair with me wherever I go.
What if there was a portable version of this chair? How great would that be?
As I drifted off into semi consciousness, I could picture myself in the chair at chemo (are you sure I can’t have just a little more poison?)
I could picture myself in the chair at the dentist office (not so much novocaine, doc…I’ve got my chair.)
I could picture myself in the chair waiting for the doctor (would anyone else like to go first?).
I could picture myself in the chair -a special kind made for the gynecologist-with stirrups that squeeze your calves (“Oooh, that feels so good! Please, don’t stop!”)
I could picture myself in the chair with a big smile on my face at my niece’s middle school play (“you mean it’s over already?”)
I could picture myself in the chair at shul (“Wow, that service was so short!”)
I could picture myself in my portable chair stuck in traffic on the highway (“F#%k the traffic, I’m getting a massage and listening to my book tape!”)
The possibilities are endless—colonoscopies, watching a sci fi movie for the 80th time with my husband (I’d let him have a turn during Downton Abby), endless committee meetings.
I’d bring my chair everywhere…I would never be anxious again. I would never feel like shooting a speaker who just won’t shut up. I would never again have the feeling that everything in life is too long
I woke as the door to the Quiet Room opened softly.
“Mrs. Benjamin, your car is ready,” the service associate told me softly. I glanced at my watch. The little fix had taken well over an hour.
“I’ll be there in about 10 minutes. Just gotta finish this cycle. OK?”
“Totally understand, ma’am. Take your time.”
“Don’t call me Ma’am,” I thought, as I settled back in the chair.
But I really didn’t mind. I was in my happy place, in my chair, and my thingamagig was all fixed.